Your Hand In Mine
by Murinae
Summary: Despite the nature of his dreams, it will be through fire, not water, that he will lose his last, tangible connection to Sai.
1. Part 1 : Losing Place

**Disclaimers**: (sing it with me now) "No they're not mine, no they're not mine, though I've taken 'em out to play. So now you know, dear, though I love 'em, please don't take my money away." (to the tune of "You Are My Sunshine") 

**Timeline: **Takes place after the Hokuto cup.

**Warnings: **None. No violence. No action. No romance. (Hey, where is everyone going!) .However,Hikaru does swear a bit. Bad Hikaru!

**I get by with a little help from**: everyone on my LJ friends list, both new and old. Their support has been both overwhelming and humbling. Big thanks in particular go to **Issen4**, **T-chan**, and **svzinsanity**, all of whom helped make this more readable (and all of whom are quite accomplished writers in their own right). **Tarigwaemir **came up with the summary suggestion. And as always, a big "I'm not worthy!" goes to **Imbrium**, who was the first to read it (and who hasn't been able to escape since.)

Still, the full blame for any "bawaaaah!" sort of mistakes should land squarely on me. I don't listen very well. So get your sporks ready!

* * *

**Dedication: **In memory of Rebekah. Sometimes, we all need our places to go, to think, and to remember. 

This is my place.

* * *

**Your Hand In Mine**  
**Part One: Losing Place**

Despite the nature of his dreams, it will be through fire, not water, that he will lose his last, tangible connection to Sai.

The headlines will read: Heroic Teen Saves Grandparents from Blaze.

But he will not feel like a hero.

The flames will erupt from the east wall of the guest room on the upper floor of his grandparents' two story house. Faulty wiring, installed more than fifty years ago, will finally give into the wear of time and fate.

And whether through time or fate, he will be there, playing a game with his grandfather downstairs, while his grandmother naps in the room above them.

He will not have time to finish the game. He will not have time to pick up the fan he drops in alarm, when he first smells the smoke. He will give no thought to the contents of the house. He will not think of the meals his grandmother had prepared for him in the kitchen, of the times his grandfather had held him close and told him stories in the tatami room, or of the long afternoons he had spent in the attic.

He will only think of two things -- how fast he must push his grandfather outside and the number of steps he will have to take to reach the room where his grandmother sleeps, unaware.

The flames will take all the rooms and the memories within them, will take all the half-forgotten minutes and hours of his childhood -- will take the entire structure down to the last timber. But even then, he will be thankful that it will not take that which is truly irreplaceable.

It will not be until the time of ashes, after the smoke and the flames have faded, that he will think of the life, irreplaceable, that has already left him behind.

And it will not be until a week after the headlines, after the ashes have the soft green of new grass on them, that Touya Akira will come over to his house. And in Touya's hands, there will be a gift.

Then, and only then, will Shindo Hikaru finally be able to stop dreaming of whispering rivers and cold currents carrying his loss to the seas.

* * *


	2. Part 2 : Be Here Now

**Your Hand in Mine  
****Part Two: Be Here Now**

* * *

It is a fluke, really, how he first finds out. 

Normally, Touya Akira doesn't pay attention to the news sources outside that of _Go Weekly_. It's not that he doesn't care or that he doesn't feel any empathy towards the feasts and famines around the world over. He just deems it futile to merely read about what is happening. At least with Igo, he can make some sort of a difference.

And in this way he quietly determines how to view his own reality -- from word to word, day to day.

Still, his mother likes catching up on the social and political gossip, so they receive the _Daily Yomuri_ every morning. He just happens to be the first one to pick up the paper. The headlines read: Heroic Teen Saves Grandparents from Blaze.

And there, staring at him from the front page, is the ash smudged face of Shindo Hikaru.

Fortunately, the article reports no fatalities, but the fire has completely destroyed the house. If it hadn't been for Shindo, his grandparents could have very well lost their lives.

Once more and then again, Akira reads the words on the page. They are matter-of-fact, concise ... and utterly useless. They cannot begin to express the heart pounding fear Shindo must have felt, in those first panicked seconds. Words alone could not encompass how the heat must have blistered his skin, how the smoke must have stung his eyes and filled his lungs, leaving him half blind and hacking. Akira, however, can imagine it well enough, even without the help of the printed text.

_Did he even consider? _he crumples the paper, irrationally angry. _Did he even consider that he could have ..._

_No._ He steadies his hands against the kitchen table, suddenly feeling cold. He knows.

Shindo would have gone back in, regardless.

The phone line to the Shindo residence yields little more than a busy signal. He contemplates visiting Shindo in person, but he does not want to add to the chaos already surrounding the household.

When he arrives at the Go Institute, Akira finds that the players are all abuzz with the news. He ignores it, as he has done many times before. Gossip involving Shindo Hikaru is hardly new.

The whispers this time, however, are respectful ... if a little puzzled. The other players normally choose to view Shindo Hikaru as Shindo-the-brash-Igo-Player; Shindo-the-good-heroic-grandson is something altogether different.

Akira, however, is not puzzled.

He has long known that Shindo has many, many variations to his personality -- from brash-Igo-player to rude-mouthed-teenager to outright-infuriating-enigma. The one Akira knows best is Shindo-the-eternal-rival, but all of them are equally Shindo, and all of those versions are equally _real_, despite being radically different. He mentally adds the new title to his catalogue.

The whispering grows when Shindo calls and cancels his matches for the next two weeks. How far will this set the young pro back? Will it be a temporary break? Or will this time be a repeat of the last time Shindo Hikaru took a hiatus? Smaller things than fires, after all, had broken higher ranked pros . . .

... and Shindo has broken before.

Akira, however, does not have any questions.

What does surprise him, however, is when Ichikawa-san calls, nearly five days after the incident.

"He's here," she says, and there's an odd ripple to her tone, as if she is suppressing a chuckle. "He's complaining that you forgot your game with him. Actually, he's making _quite_ a bit of noise."

"Tell him to stay," he replies. "And to shut up."

The glare that pins him as he enters is almost comforting in its familiarity. Shindo holds a black stone in one hand. A game lies half constructed on the lines and crosslines before him.

"You forgot!" Shindo accuses, pointing at Akira with the stone. How Shindo could make even such a simple gesture seem so insulting, Akira has yet to figure out.

"I didn't forget. I just thought, with you canceling your matches ..." Akira pauses. "How is your family, by the way?

"They're fine. Look, I didn't cancel with you, did I?" Shindo continues to huff. "Yeah, so I had to clear out a few days to help with my grandparents, but I made damn sure that I could still come here for our weekly game. Didn't want you to freak or something."

"Me?" Akira blinks.

"Yeah, _you_. I want you to know I'm not quitting or anything, even if I'm missing a bunch of games." Shindo crosses his arms. "So you don't have to do the psycho-chasing-after-me thing."

"The psycho ... what!" Akira frowns. "I wasn't planning on it."

Shindo's brows furrow together."You weren't?"

"No."

"Oh." Shindo's shoulders slump slightly. "I ... see."

"I believed you when you said you would come back," Akira finds himself explaining. "_That_ should have been fairly obvious."

"Really!"

Akira sighs. "I was not _that_ bad back then, was I?"

Shindo's mouth quirks upward. "Just wanted to be sure you knew. I'm not quitting. I'm _not._"

For a moment, Akira wonders just who Shindo is trying to convince. The thought vanishes when he glances down at the goban, taking the time to really study it. The white hand is exquisite in its domination of the board. Yet, the true beauty isn't in the show of supremacy.

_Shidogo,_ Akira thinks. _But unlike any I've ever seen before. Even if it's just a teaching game, it **shines** ... as it dominates, it yields just enough, leaving its opponent a path to advance as well._

"Shindo, this ..."

"What?" Shindo looks down to the goban. "Oh. _That._ That's ... just shidogo."

"What do you mean just shidogo!" Akira frowns. "Who's playing white?"

The style is faintly familiar, with archaic and modern patterns intermixed.

"Is it someone I've played before?" The answer builds within him, tremulous.

But the look in Shindo's eyes . . .

"You've played a lot of people, so how would I know?" Shindo's hands dart forward, picking out the black stones ... and only the black, though it would have been easier to push all the stones into a pile and sort them out then. But Shindo leaves the white pieces untouched. As the black stones disappear, the pattern seems strangely bereft and warped, without balance.

"Anyway, I came to play you today. Not some old game." Shindo drops the black stones into the ke, then goes back for the white. Again, he picks each one up individually, stone by stone. This time, however, his hands move just the slightest bit slower.

"I would have liked to see the outcome of that," Akira says as the last piece clatters into the bowl.

"White wins. Or ... _sorta_ wins since it is shidogo ... eh, whatever." Shindo replies. He holds out the ke. "Nigiri?"

Akira wants to argue the matter further, wants to shake his rival until Shindo yields up the end of that game ... until he yields up the end of all the secrets, all the games that he holds within him.

But Akira recognizes the stubborn set of Shindo's chin. The way his eyes have narrowed. How stiffly he now holds his arms.

_Shindo-the-infuriating-enigma is in control_, Akira thinks, faintly.

He reaches for the bowl instead.

Shindo has always been fierce in his play. Today, however, his tactics are beyond fierce, beyond powerful, and Akira finds himself leaning forward, almost bracing against the wild patterns that form, clash, and shift, like the edge of two storms meeting. Shindo pushes each hand, challenges each corner, and cuts ruthlessly through every shape. He tears across the goban, playing here, playing there, and everywhere at once.

Nowadays, Akira can no longer push his rival around the board, willy nilly. Nowadays, Shindo manages to win against him, occasionally. Still, Akira hasn't quite reconciled himself to losing. But today ...

"Makemashita," Akira barely manages to squeeze the word out. It is not an embarrassing loss by any means, but he has to fight the need to brace his elbows against his knees and breathe deeply, as if he has been running long and hard.

"Thank you for the game," Shindo says. He has yet to look up from the goban, and for a moment, something wild lingers in his eyes, something sharp and glinting, almost predatory.

Akira draws a quick breath.

And the moment breaks.

Shindo's eyes lose their focus, becoming slightly glazed and glassy. For the first time, Akira notices the dark rings that smudge the area below Shindo's eyes. Shindo's hands drift up to rest lightly against the edge of the goban, and his head drops forward, so that his hair hides the rest of his face.

"Shindo?"

"Eh? What?" Shindo shakes his head, like an old dog waking. His hands drop to his side and he tilts his neck backward, stretching until Akira hears the cracking of vertebrae. "Oooogh. That feels goooood. But you know what's gonna feel even better? Discussing YOUR post game. It's time for some butt kicking!"

"Actually, I already know exactly how you won. I played a sloppy kosumi, up here." Akira points out. "And here, I should have made up the point by ignoring the atari."

"And you also did stupid stuff here and here." Shindo fingers dance above the clusters, gleeful. "And you didn't take advantage of my weakness here. Just face it, you're losing ground to me! I'm gonna trample all over you! At any rate, this should prove to _everyone_ that I've stopped being a loser."

Shindo looks up. Again, something flashes in his expression, half wild and half lost. Akira doesn't say anything.

"Well?" Shindo asks, after the silence has stretched for several heartbeats. "Aren't you going yell back at me for being so cocky? Or about my sloppy move here?"

Akira stares at the goban, squelching the sudden urge to pick up another stone. It's easier to read the games on the board, to see Shindo as Shindo-the-eternal-rival or Shindo-the-infuriating-enigma. Shindo-the-friend ...

Shindo raises an eyebrow. "Whatever the hell it is, just spit it out, Touya. I know you're just itching to call me an idiot!"

Shindo-the-_friend_ is something altogether different.

"Look. How are you,_ really_?"

"Huh?" Shindo stops mind-rant. He blinks for a moment, tilting his head to the side. "I'm fine! I won didn't I?"

"Yes but ..."

"But _what?_ The game was good ..."

"This has nothing to do with the game ... it has everything to do with you. I can read you in other ways, you know!" As soon as the words leave his mouth, Akira flushes.

"You do what!" Shindo goggles at him. It is a rather unflattering reaction. "O-kay. Back up. What in the hell are you saying?"

"Ah. Um. Well." Akira stares at the goban longingly again. He settles for folding his hands in his lap instead. "What about the fire?"

"The fire!" Shindo's eyebrows rise. "What _about_ the fire?"

"Is it your grandmother?"

"She'll be out of the hospital by Thursday," Shindo replies. "Honestly, everything is fine. I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are. But why?"

"What do you mean _why?_ To play you, dummy! And don't think this is going to get you out of the post-game butt kicking discussion." Shindo's hands wave briefly in the air, like birds startled into flight, before finally falling to his sides. "I _knew_ you were going to get all weird about it."

"I don't think I'm the one who's getting ... 'weird'."

"What's the big deal, anyway!" Shindo scowls. "It was just a house. And we just lost _stuff_."

"Perhaps. But ... you're still looking for something, aren't you? Because this entire game, this visit ... each move you've made ... it's like you're trying to answer a question you don't even know you're asking. All I can think of is that it has something to do with the fire."

Shindo doesn't reply immediately. His back stiffens, however, becoming ramrod straight.

Akira waits.

"Ugggggh!" Shindo bunches his hands in his hair. "I liked it better when you yelled."

Holding his ground, Akira ignores Shindo's glare. _You are not the only one who contains multitudes,_ he thinks. _I have my silent contradictions as well._

"What are you looking for, Shindo?"

"I'm not ..." Shindo stares at his hands, as if he suddenly has discovered them. He moves his fingers, then sighs. "The fire was bad, yeah. But it's just a place, you know. Even if it was where I ... well, you know I didn't really discover the game like you did. Or like the other players."

Akira forces himself not to react nor move even the slightest to the odd non sequitur. Shindo's eyes are focused on him now, looking for a weakness. He has given Shindo one victory, and one victory is enough for the day.

Finally, Shindo looks away. "It ... it just happened. The game, I meant. With the other players and pros ... it's like everyone else has always just _known_, ever since they were little kids. You especially. It's like you've always had an open path before you, always knew just where to place each of your steps and stones. But for me, it was like one day ... h-it was suddenly there. Like a light coming on. Thing is ... I didn't even know it was _dark_."

Akira knows he is staring at his rival, mouth slightly open. He knows, but he also knows there is little he can do to control his reaction. Shindo doesn't take advantage of this, however. His gaze is distant.

"My grandparents' house is ... was ... where it all began for me," Shindo continues. "It was a point where I could trace everything back to, it's the one moment when everything fell into place. I know it's silly and stupid to put so much value on places and things, but I could always return and see ... well, see how far I've come since that first game. It ... it ... it made it _real_, somehow."

Shindo's expression is achingly sad in its bewilderment. "Sometimes, life seems so random. Or like a dream."

Shindo's hands open and close, fluttering and empty. "And everything happened so fast, and it could leave just as ... and the fire ... Look, it doesn't matter. I'm not looking for anything, Touya ... that's not already gone. All I know is what is still before me. I'm still here, I'm still playing, and that's the important thing, right?"

Shindo curls his hands into fists and shoves them into his jacket pockets. "I'm still here," he repeats, firmly. "And I'll be back next week."

Unable to find any words, Akira merely nods. That seems to be enough for Shindo. He turns abruptly. Without a backward glance, he walks out of the salon, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

* * *

A day later, Akira still hears that silence. It is with him when he first wakes up in the morning and goes downstairs to retrieve the paper. It is with him as he heads down towards the trains. It even muffles the conversations around him, making them sound as if they were coming from underwater. He tries to replace the silent space with the game he and Shindo had played, but to his alarm, the patterns refuse to form for long in his mind. 

What he does remember, however, is how empty Shindo's hands had looked.

Maybe that is why he finds himself, without rhyme or reason, visiting the Igo institute and canceling his games for the day. Maybe that is why he finds himself boarding the train, with Shindo's house as his destination. Maybe ... or maybe not.

It is rather freeing, in a way, to just flat out run towards some fuzzy purpose, without giving thought to consequence or reason. Without _needing_ a consequence or reason.

_Perhaps this is how Shindo feels, all the time. Perhaps this is what he means by how random life's impulses can seem,_ he thinks.

_It's a bit scary._

He rings the doorbell.

Shindo answers at the second ring. For a moment, he just stares at Akira, mouth agape.

"Touya! What the HELL are you doing here? I told you I'd see you next week! Jeeeeez! Did you hit your head or something? First you lose a game, and then you forgot I said I'd be back ... can't you just trust me!"

"Like I said before, I did _not_ forget. And for a long while now,_ you've_ been the one having problems with trust. _You_ are the one who cannot believe that I truly do believe in you. Or ... maybe it's the other way around."

"What!"

"Perhaps you do not believe in me ... or trust that I am here and have been, all along." Akira says, softly. "Anyway, I came to bring you this. For your next game. For ... our next game."

"What is _with_ you ..." Shindo trails off, as Akira takes a the long, flat box from his coat and offers it forward.

"Take it."

Slowly, reluctantly, Shindo accepts the box. His mouth tugging into a frown, he shakes it dubiously. "It's not something stupid, is it?"

"Open it and see."

"Fine, but I hope you kept the receipt," Shindo says, rather rudely, as he rips open the paper. "I don't know wh--" His words stop, mid-syllable.

"You didn't have one out during our game," Akira fills the silence awkwardly. "The paper mentioned that you were over at your grandparents' house for an Igo game with your grandfather. Since you normally never let that fan out of your sight, especially in a game, I thought it might have been there when ..."

Shindo's face remains completely blank. In contrast, Akira's face flushes even more. "It just felt _odd_, seeing you without ... I apologize for my assumptions. You don't have to use it. I know that it can't replace ..."

"No." Shindo's voice quivers. He sounds so very, very small. That fan shakes in his hand.

Akira closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"But ... you ..." Shindo swallows audibly. "You ... noticed."

When Akira opens his eyes, Shindo's face isn't all puckered up in anger ... or even sorrow.

The look, instead, is indescribable.

"Look, Shindo, I can't say that I understand what's going on, not really. But you don't have to justify ... or explain it to me, not if you don't want to." Akira stares at the fan. "Just ... like you said, you _are_ still here. But ... I'm still here too. I cannot predict what will happen tomorrow, but for what it's worth, we're both _here_ now. And I'm ... glad of that."

He knows he will never understand Shindo Hikaru completely. It is a fluke, half the time, that he finds out anything at all about his eternal rival. But sometimes ...

Shindo grips the fan tight. "Thank you."

Sometimes Akira understands just enough to make it worthwhile.

* * *


	3. Part 3 : Past Perfect

**Your Hand in Mine **

**Part 3: ****Past Perfect**

* * *

He didn't know exactly when he started to think of Sai in the past tense or the symbolism inherent in that slow sea change.

After all, he wasn't really one to contemplate the conjugations of verbs (present, past, future, or otherwise), or the symbolism inherent in anything.

So it came as a sudden shock, when he noticed, months and months later, that his thoughts had slipped from "I wonder what Sai thinks about this" to "I wonder what Sai would have thought."

It was even more of a shock to realize that the hurt had dulled, somewhat. In the beginning, the pain had been constant ... and would increase when he had to correct himself mid-thought. Now he corrected himself automatically, without notice.

He had gotten _used_ to Sai not being there.

His hand automatically dropped to his pocket. The hard slats of the fan should have reassured him; most of the time, it was enough. Sai had been real, once.

But on some days, he remembered that the fan was just something he purchased; a physical reminder of something he had seen in a dream. On some days, the fan was merely a flimsy construct of paper and wood.

In those moments, he could understand the need of the living for the graves of the dead.

Anyway, it had been quite awhile since he had seen his grandfather, and he had promised the old geezer a game.

In the late afternoon sunlight, the goban seemed to glow with a warm honey hue. Running his fingers over the lines and stars, Hikaru could almost imagine he felt a certain sort of warmth emanating from the wood. His fingers danced lightly over the area where there should have been several stains.

There. And there. His fingers dipped and swayed. A scattering of reddish brown drops should have dotted the space to the right of his index finger. And just below his thumb, a lighter mark should have glittered, semi-transparent like salt grains, the residue of tears. They had been visible, once.

"I thought of you again, today," he said to the empty air. "I still think of you often. But you know that, right?"

As soon as he spoke, something loosened within him, and it felt much like releasing the last bit of stale air from a breath held too long. His lungs still ached, of course, but at least he could breathe freely again.

"I played Touya yesterday. We began in the upper left corner, komoku, just like your first game with him. But it turned out differently; you were right when you said that no game can ever be truly played again. I'm still looking though."

Hikaru picked up the dusting cloth. Slowly, he passed it along the surface, carefully sweeping along the lines. He curved the soft fabric around the legs of the board, making sure to catch the bottom half of the board as well. The entire time, his touch remained half gentle, half reverent. And as he cleaned, he talked of games and of life and of nothing much at all, until his voice faded out.

After that, he merely sat, silent and still, dust rag clutched in one hand.

Time passed. The shadows moved across the window, and the sunlight tilted and faded. He wasn't aware of just how many minutes or hours had gone by, however, until he heard the soft chuffle of someone clearing their throat.

"Hikaru, are you going to play me or what?" his grandfather's voice asked.

"Yeah, coming!" He stumbled upwards awkwardly, stamping his legs until the blood rushed back.

"Are you looking at that goban again? I told you to take that blasted thing home. Wouldn't it be easier than making a trip all the way over here?"

"It's fine where it is. I like having a place to come back to." For a moment, he stared back into the quiet shadows. "Anyways, don't you want me to come over to visit you? Or are you scared of me whipping your butt?"

"You impudent brat! I wouldn't talk so loud about beating me until the moku have been counted!" his grandfather retorted. "But really, keep your voice down. Your grandmother's taking a nap."

"Sure _you_ don't need one before our game? And if you're so certain of the win, d'ya wanna bet again?" he grinned. But as he followed his grandfather back to the tatami room, he paused. His hand slipped down to his fan, fingers tracing the solid edges of the slats.

_A place to come back to, always,_ he thought again, though he didn't say it aloud.

"C'mon, grandpa, let's play."

The End

* * *

**A/N:**

Well. That was ... rather ... weird.

For the record, the piece was named after the song "Your Hand In Mine," by Explosions in the Sky. It's actually an instrumental piece, and I was trying to capture the mood. Thing is, just _how_ a rather mellow instrumental piece inspired me to burn down Hikaru's grandparent's house (and Sai's goban by proxy) still remains a mystery, even to me.

I also stole the second title from an Oasis song, "Be Here Now" even though the section in question really doesn't have much to do with that song at all. Um.

What it comes down to, in the end, is that I wrote a songfic. And errr ... about the switching tenses thing, all I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

To make things worse, I've also stolen cobbled a line from Walt Whitman's Song of Myself. (It's Akira's "_You are not the only one who contains multitudes_. _I have my silent contradictions as well," _line, in case you're curious).

Then there's the random Japanese Igo terms thrown in for fun. Um. Yeah.

Still, despite the various shortcomings of the piece, the best thing about the writing process, though, is that I have a lot of help, which does make the weirdness worthwhile. If you've ever reviewed any of my stories in the past, thank you. If you're a part of my f-list, a double thank you. And if you reply now... well, I think I might have to do my squeeing dance of gratitude in your honor.

Still, whether you reply or not, I thank you the most for reading to the very end.

'til next time,  
-muri


End file.
